


Crossroads

by Lady_in_Red



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Post-War, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Depression, F/M, First Meetings, Gen, Hope, Insomnia, Nightmares, One Shot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-02-22 04:44:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2494943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_in_Red/pseuds/Lady_in_Red
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war is over, but Jaime can't put it behind him. He spends his nights avoiding sleep, walking the streets of Riverrun. His usual nighttime haunt provides some distraction, but not enough to chase away his nightmares, until an unexpected encounter with a fellow veteran offers him a second chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crossroads

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Miss_M for giving this one several reads. 
> 
> For those who need trigger warnings, please be aware that this fic deals with a character considering suicide.

Jaime didn’t sleep.

Not enough to placate his doctors and not enough to fade the dark circles under his eyes. Some nights Jaime lay tangled in the sheets, replaying every happy memory he had, hoping for dreams free of blood and pain. He’d swiftly realized how few truly pleasant memories he had. Other nights he stayed on the couch, watching movies but unable to remember either plot or actors by morning. 

Jaime counted himself lucky if he woke without screaming. Whether from nightmares or pain, it made no difference. His throat was always raw, his sheets soaked with sweat. His neighbors had called the police the first time they’d heard him. An eviction notice had appeared on Jaime’s door less than two months after he’d returned to King’s Landing. Tolerance for the eccentricities of a one-handed veteran only stretched so far. 

Jaime had taken the opportunity to leave the Crownlands, against his father’s wishes. He’d found a one-bedroom apartment above an appliance repair shop in Riverrun, where he could scream all night without disturbing anyone. The building was only a five-minute walk from the Red Fork, but Jaime swiftly found that he couldn’t linger on the picturesque stone bridge spanning the river. Police and well-meaning locals often patrolled Riverrun’s bridges due to their popularity with jumpers. 

When sleep eluded him or he fought it, Jaime often walked to a small diner on the other side of the river. The Crossroads Cafe was nothing special, but it was open 24 hours, and that was good enough for him. 

The vinyl benches were cracked, Formica tabletops chipped and stained, light fixtures caked with dust and cobwebs. The dim lighting was perhaps a vain attempt to cover the general shabbiness of the place, to no avail. Still, there was something familiar and comforting about the wash of warm air redolent of coffee and grease which greeted Jaime when he pushed open the glass door. 

Two skinny, dark-haired waitresses usually worked nights. One looked up as Jaime made his way to a booth. He slumped gratefully on the cushioned seat, turned over the coffee mug resting on the table. 

Pia finished refilling another customer’s coffee and came over to fill Jaime’s mug. She might have been lovely before someone broke her teeth and stole the light from her eyes. “Usual, sugar?” 

Jaime offered her a small smile and nod. After the fourth time he had ordered buttered white toast, Pia had stopped bringing him a menu. That didn’t stop her from urging him to eat more.

She clucked in disapproval. “You sure I can’t bring you some eggs, bacon, pancakes?” 

“No, just the toast.” Jaime picked up his coffee and sipped the scalding liquid. It wasn’t the worst coffee he’d ever tasted, but it came close—just below hospital coffee and just above instant. Bitter and acidic, but Jaime drank it black anyway. Sugar had been a luxury in the field, cream unheard of, and he’d learned to drink coffee as it was, if not enjoy it. The toast staved off heartburn and kept Pia mostly off his case. 

Jaime sipped his coffee again, closed his eyes and scratched ineffectually at the stubble covering his jaw. His fingernails were bitten to the quick, cuticles red and raw. An old nervous habit. Since he couldn’t trim his own nails anymore, he didn’t bother trying to stop biting them. 

Long months in the dark had taught Jaime to listen closely. He’d desperately missed mundane sounds. The clink of mugs and cutlery, barking laughter, the click and swoosh of the door opening behind him. Heavy footsteps. Must be the blonde.

Jaime opened his eyes, confirmed it was indeed her broad back moving slowly away from him. That was all the regulars accounted for, then. Three Ghiscari cabbies at the counter, the scrawny young cop who flirted with Pia while he did his paperwork, a small group of working girls trading gossip, and the vast blonde woman.

The blonde took a seat at the counter. One large hand covered her scarred cheek, luminous blue eyes scanned the menu as if she didn’t come here nearly as often as Jaime did. He didn’t know her name, they’d never spoken, but he knew she'd been a soldier. Even if he didn’t recognize shrapnel wounds, Jaime would know from the cadence of her steps, the set of her shoulders, the short regulation military cut of her straw blonde hair. 

The soldier wasn’t like Jaime. She was big, quiet, and maimed, but she wasn’t broken. Jaime had gotten his weekly fill of broken men that afternoon. They had sat in uncomfortable plastic chairs, vacant eyes looking past Chaplain Meribald as he talked endlessly about finding purpose and embracing civilian life. 

What a joke. Jaime was certain that the old chaplain had never spent a year in a POW camp, locked in a small cell alone. Jaime had been captured attempting to assassinate the young leader of the Northern resistance, then questioned and moved to Harrenhal, where he’d been left to rot. Jaime had grown so used to sleeping on cold stone that he still sometimes ended up sleeping on his bedroom floor. 

The darkness, the screams, the stench… it was all still there when Jaime closed his eyes. 

He blinked, focused. The blonde was standing now, a takeout cup of coffee in her hand. She was watching him, her brow knit and her wide mouth drawn down in a frown. Gods, he’d been staring again. 

Jaime looked down at the table, his stump bumping against the flatware. Light flashed on the knife’s blade and he shuddered. Coffee. He needed more coffee. Hand shaking, Jaime drained the mug. 

Meribald swore that the flashbacks would go away in time. Meribald was obviously full of shit.

Pia slid a plate of buttered toast onto the table, nearly bumping into the big blonde as Pia turned to fetch the coffee carafe. “Sorry,” Pia mumbled. 

As she stepped out of the waitress's way, the blonde's battered satchel caught on a chair and nearly knocked it over. Her face flushed a dull red, scars milk-pale along her left cheek and neck. Jaime tried to catch her eye, but the blonde stared resolutely at the floor as she made her escape from the diner. 

Jaime checked the clock on the far wall. Four a.m. The sun would rise in an hour and a half. He’d heard tourists nattering about the beauty of the sunrise seen from Blackfish Bridge. If he were surrounded by tourists, the police wouldn’t force him to leave, would they? 

Jaime glanced down at his stained cargo pants and wrinkled sweater, discreetly sniffed an armpit. He could use a shower. And a change of clothes. Assuming he had something clean. When had he last done laundry? 

Pia was watching him. Jaime could feel her stare. Fine, he’d eat the damn toast before he left. He picked up the first piece, took a bite, chewed methodically. The cook always toasted the bread on the griddle, so it tasted vaguely of bacon, sausage, and eggs as well as butter. That was as much meat as Jaime could handle. When the Crown’s forces had shut down Harrenhal after the war, they had found evidence that dead prisoners had been butchered and fed to the survivors. 

When the plate held only crumbs and his cup was empty again, Jaime pulled a handful of one-dragon bills from his pocket along with several silver stags and left them on the table. He always tipped well. He’d heard the other waitress, Jeyne, mention a younger sister who lived with her, and Jaime doubted the diner paid well. Between his pension and the money he’d saved over the years, Jaime had plenty to spare. 

He made his way down the sidewalk, the predawn chill in the air making him glad he’d dressed warmly. Walking was in itself hypnotic, Jaime’s feet automatically following their usual path until a shaft of light broke across the pavement.

Jaime looked up.  _ Hot Pie, _ the sign proclaimed. He peered through the window. A bakery, not open for another two hours, yet a light burned in the kitchen behind the display case. Jaime inhaled deeply, catching a whiff of yeasty bread and sugar. His mouth watered. Bread still warm from the oven was one of the few things which could tempt him into eating much these days. 

How many times had he walked past this bakery and never noticed it? 

Shadows moved inside the shop, and the blonde appeared in the light, a white apron tied over her T-shirt. She carried a tray of golden-brown muffins to the display case, then walked out of Jaime’s view. He drifted further down the sidewalk, to where he could see her standing at a counter. 

Her short hair was tied back under a blue bandana, a look of total concentration on her freckled face. The well-developed muscles of her shoulders and arms flexed as she worked with something just out of his line of sight. She picked up a large ball of dough, stretched it between her strong hands, and slammed it back down on the counter, throwing up a cloud of flour. 

The small, satisfied smile on her face almost distracted Jaime from the dog tags glinting silver against her apron as she kneaded the dough. Two sets of tags. 

Jaime reflexively touched his tags through his sweater. The metal took on his body heat so he’d rarely noticed them until they’d been taken away after his capture. Jaime had still felt them for months afterward, a constant weight on his chest under the rotting clothes and the filth. He didn’t want to think about the trunk full of tags found after Harrenhal was liberated, nor about the soldiers who’d worn them.

Jaime stood by the window, watching the blonde woman knead the dough, roll and pat heavy loaves into shape, retrieve more muffins from the oven. The intoxicating yeasty smell intensified, joined by sweet, ripe blueberries, toasted nuts, cinnamon. Jaime’s stomach growled. 

He startled, his stump thumped against the window. The woman looked up, saw him there, her generous mouth opened in surprise. 

Jaime stepped back, dropped his gaze from her questioning blue eyes. She’d think he was a stalker. Just the kind of attention he didn’t need. Jaime set off along the sidewalk. 

The sky was brightening in the east. He’d been standing in front of the bakery for a while, though it hadn’t seemed like more than a few minutes. Jaime’s doctors had warned that long-term sleep deprivation could result in something they called microsleeps, when he would abruptly fall asleep for seconds or minutes, occasionally with his eyes open. 

As he approached the bridge, Jaime realized that he wouldn’t have time to shower before sunrise. There were only a few joggers crossing the stone span, no tourists yet. The bridge itself, erected hundreds of years ago, restricted river traffic due to its low clearance, and was narrow enough that cars weren’t allowed on it. Arrow slits had once allowed archers to fire down on boats passing underneath. Kids liked to drop copper stars into the river, wishing for toys, less homework, vacations. 

Jaime rested against the eastern parapet of the bridge, listening to the water surging below. Snow melt had swollen the river well beyond its usual banks, its swift currents carrying tree branches, trash, and other debris far downstream. 

Farther east, the ancestral castle of the Tullys stood at the confluence of the Red Fork and the Tumblestone. Beyond it, an elegant steel suspension bridge spanned the river, carrying traffic north toward the glass towers of downtown Riverrun. Even at this hour, headlights moved north over the water in a steady stream. Between the roadway and the river, barely visible nets hung to catch jumpers. The bridges of Riverrun had been popular with suicides for centuries, bodies washing ashore as far east as the Quiet Isle. Jaime told himself often that the bridges weren’t why he’d chosen to move here, but he couldn’t quite make himself believe it.

The new and ironically named Veterans’ Memorial Bridge had ended scores of lives before the highway authority added the nets. Those who would not be deterred simply jumped from the Blackfish Bridge, where Jaime now stood, or the Spring Bridge over the Tumblestone. There had been far more jumpers than usual since the war ended. 

The civil war had been particularly hard on soldiers. How could they ever get back to normal life when there were bombed-out buildings in the towns and rusting tanks in the fields? They said that the Crown had won the war, but Jaime had lost everything. He had heard the siren call of the bridge, more than once. 

“I didn’t peg you for a jumper.”

Jaime froze. Before Harrenhal, no one could have snuck up on him. 

He turned, unsurprised to see the blonde. He’d never heard her speak before. Her voice wasn’t quite as deep as he’d expected, given her size, but her tone infuriated him. Derision, as if he had disappointed her somehow. 

“You don’t know me,” Jaime answered with equal scorn.

She cocked her head to the side, her short hair catching the breeze. Flour dusted her chin. “Commander Jaime Lannister, Crown Security Forces. Prisoner of war for more than a year. Lost a hand when the mercenaries your father hired to rescue you decided to carve you up and demand more money. It was all over the news.” She took a step back, regarding him critically. “You look like hell.” 

Jaime stalked away from her, farther along the bridge. The sky was turning orange at the horizon, the river rushing toward the Narrow Sea sparkled in the early morning light.

_ He  _ looked like hell? Big lumbering woman, hands larger than his, crooked teeth, broken nose ... and  _ she  _ thought to comment on his appearance? “You have flour on your chin,” he pointed out. 

She swiped a hand at her chin, her gaze focused on his face. “And you haven’t showered in days. I bet I could see your ribs under that sweater, you’re so thin. You’re in the diner most mornings, don’t you eat?” 

Jaime crossed his arms. “I eat.” 

She snorted. “Pia thinks you’re starving yourself to death. Won’t shut up about it.”

Jaime stared resolutely at the horizon, refusing to look at her. “Pia should mind her own damn business.” He leaned forward, estimating the distance to the water. Thirty feet? Twenty-five? Headfirst, would it matter?

“What are you doing here, Commander?” 

“Watching the sunrise.”

“What are you doing  _here_?” This time her tone was gentle. 

Why  _ was _ he here? Jaime could have gone anywhere. Back to Casterly Rock, over the Narrow Sea to Essos. He could be sitting on a beach with a drink in his hand and a beautiful woman in his bed. Instead Jaime stood on a bridge less than an hour away from the woods where he’d been captured, arguing with an ugly stranger. 

“I’m dying,” he whispered. Maybe not today, though it was tempting. With a witness, he wouldn’t just be a nameless bloated corpse found on the riverbank. Then again, she might try to stop him before he could get over the parapet. 

“No, you’re going to live, Jaime,” she said firmly. 

Jaime turned to face her, found himself looking slightly up into her startled blue eyes. "You think you know me because you heard about me on TV? You don't. I died the night they did this." Jaime pulled back his sleeve, shoved his stump in her face. 

She didn't move, just turned her scarred cheek toward Jaime. The scars ran down her neck and peeked out from beneath the neckline of her shirt, where her dogtags lay.  _ Captain Brienne Tarth, Fifth Battalion, Stormlands. _ The other set was unreadable behind hers. She touched her cheek lightly. “The night this happened, I watched a man toss his brother a live grenade. I tried to warn Renly, but he caught it. Half our squad was wiped out in an instant. I lived. So did you, Jaime. If we die, they win.”

"Haven’t you heard, Captain? The war’s over. We won."

Brienne's mouth set in a stubborn line. “Don’t be a coward.”

“Coward? I was a sniper, and they cut off my  _ hand. _ What do I have to live for?” Jaime snarled. 

This woman had no idea. No damn idea what it was like to smell your own putrefying flesh, to live for those blissful five seconds upon waking when he forgot about his missing hand, to listen to the patronizing physical therapists promising tomorrow would be better. Tomorrow was never fucking better. It was just tomorrow. 

“You think we don’t all ask ourselves that?” Brienne asked, her broad face flushed with anger. “My best friend died, and his killer walked free. I  _ lived  _ for vengeance. I lay in bed every night thinking about how to kill Stannis. I didn’t care if I got caught or if I died in the attempt. All I wanted was to see the moment when he realized he was done.”

Jaime couldn’t help glancing at her muscular arms, her strong hands clenched into fists, wondered if she’d choked the life out of the man. “Did you do it?”

Her shoulders slumped, Brienne looked down. “No. I said too much to the wrong people and got shipped off to the Quiet Isle. The Elder Brother helped me straighten out.”

Jaime had heard about the Quiet Isle. A pack of silent septons on a backward little island pushing meditation and physical labor as a cure-all. As if either would give him back all the little things he’d once taken for granted. Legibly signing his name, tying his shoes, cutting his food. 

He glanced down at the river, and a wave of dizziness struck him. Jaime reached out, his stump colliding uselessly with the parapet. He gasped as pain shot up his arm. 

“Are you okay?” Strong hands clasped his arms, holding him up. Jaime couldn’t remember the last time anyone had touched him. 

When he could move his head without wanting to throw up, Jaime mumbled, “Yeah, I’m fine.” 

Brienne moved one hand to his back, fingers spreading across his protruding ribs, and muttered, “Gods, you really don’t eat, do you?” 

A retort sprang to his lips automatically but it died unsaid when Jaime saw the concern in her eyes. Up close, they were the same blue as the skies over Casterly Rock on those lazy afternoons years ago when he and Cersei had lain in the tall grass watching the clouds. 

Brienne pushed Jaime gently back until his weight rested against the parapet, and opened the satchel she carried. She handed him a small, fragrant paper box. “I took this for my lunch, but you need it more than I do.” 

Jaime just stared at the box, too weary to point out the obvious. He couldn’t hold the damn box and open it at the same time. “Thanks,” he mumbled. “I’ll eat it at home.”

“You’ll eat it now. I’m not going to let you jump, and I’m certainly not going to let you pass out in the middle of the road either.” 

He deeply resented that she was trying to give him an order. “You think you could stop me?”

Brienne nodded. “Of course I could. You can barely stand up.” Her gaze swept over him again, and she frowned. She opened her mouth to speak, closed it again, and reached for the box. Moving to stand beside him, Brienne leaned against the parapet and opened the box, showing him the contents. One large cinnamon roll, dripping with icing. A plastic fork was tucked beside it. 

Jaime’s mouth watered, but he didn’t move. 

The sun was coming up, brightening the sky and bringing Riverrun to life around them. Tourists walked across the bridge now, tossing the pair of them surreptitious glances. Jaime didn’t really want to think about how they must look. A few bicyclists passed by, ringing their bells to keep the pedestrians out of the way. 

Brienne sighed. “Come on now. This is a very good cinnamon roll. I made it myself.” She wafted the open box under his nose, as if he couldn’t already smell the pungent mix of cinnamon and sugar.

His stomach winning out over his pride, Jaime speared the fork through the roll and maneuvered a large bite into his mouth. The pastry was warm, gooey, almost overwhelmingly rich. His teeth ached from the sweetness, but another bite found its way into his mouth before he’d even noticed he was taking it. 

“I learned how to bake on the Quiet Isle,” Brienne offered, adjusting her grip on the box. “It was either that or keep fighting everyone I met.”

Jaime looked up from the swiftly disappearing pastry long enough to raise an eyebrow at that. 

Brienne shrugged. “I wasn’t the only angry person there.” She glanced over her shoulder at the sunrise. “The Elder Brother sent me to Meribald, who found me a job. I like it here, most of the time. It’s quiet. There aren’t a lot of reminders of the war.” 

All the reminder Jaime needed was at the end of his arm. “I’ve never seen you at Meribald’s group.”

“I see him privately. I don’t like sharing with the group.” Her gaze followed a pair of joggers crossing the bridge. “Were you sent here too?”

Jaime scooped the last bite into his mouth. His stomach felt almost uncomfortably full, a radical change from the hollowness he’d grown accustomed to. “I needed to get away. This was as good a place as any.”

He met those penetrating blue eyes again. It was difficult to lie when Brienne looked at him like that, like she could read his mind. “Alright, fine,” Jaime huffed. “I came here to jump. Happy now?”

Brienne took the empty box and shoved it back into her satchel. “Happy? No. But you’re not going to jump today.” There was a hint of a question in her voice.

Jaime licked the last of the icing from his upper lip. His head felt a little clearer, but his arm ached. The water rushing below was still inviting, rosy morning sun dancing on its surface.

The war had left him raw, exhausted, broken. Just breathing sometimes took almost more effort than Jaime could bear. “No, I won’t jump today.” That was as much as he could promise. 

"Good." Relief shone in Brienne's eyes. "Then you can come by the bakery tomorrow. I'll have blueberry muffins and pecan coffee cake."

"You don't have to feed me," Jaime protested. Bad enough he had to put up with Pia's fussing, Jeyne's pitying looks, Meribald's endless sermons. He didn't need another person trying to save him.

Brienne rolled her eyes. "No, but I could use the company." She sighed and jammed her hands into her pockets. "All Meribald wants to talk about is the War of the Ninepenny Kings and accepting the will of the Seven. I wouldn't mind talking about something else.  _ Anything  _ else."

Jaime didn't miss the way her gaze dropped briefly to his arm. He wasn't about to talk to a complete stranger about that. Still, if Jaime was tired of Meribald's spiel, Brienne must be absolutely sick of it. "Maybe I could stop by," he conceded.

Brienne returned his smile, hers shy and awkward. Her nose wrinkled. "Maybe you should take a shower first."

Jaime laughed. A shower, a decent meal, a conversation that didn't revolve around saving his soul. Something to look forward to. It couldn't be that easy, could it?

It wouldn't be that easy, but it was a beginning. 


End file.
